by Maria Luis
Before we even reach the woman’s side, Gwen exclaims, “Charlie! It is so good to see you.”
The blonde glances up, and there’s no mistaking the way her eyes go wide at our approach. She looks on the verge of fleeing, but there’s no time. “Heeeey, there, Gwen.” The woman’s blue eyes flick to me, before landing on Gwen’s shark-like grab on my forearm. “Looks like you’ve made a new friend?”
By the gods that be, I’m released.
“Charlie,” Gwen says, “meet our new publicist, Zoe Mackenzie. Zoe, this is Charlie Denton. She works for The Boston Globe.”
I hold my hand out for a proper handshake. “It’s good to meet you. Have you been with The Boston Globe for a while?”
“A little over a month now. It’s still pretty fresh, actually.”
“She was with The Tribune before,” Gwen pops into the conversation, as if I should be completely familiar with the newspaper. At my raised brows, Gwen gives a little sigh of disappointment. “I forgot you aren’t from here. The Cambridge Tribune was a sinking newspaper. It recently closed down.”
I look from Gwen to Charlie, then back again. “Is this a . . . good thing?”
“Absolutely,” Charlie says, drawing my attention back to her. Just before she stuffs a mini-quesadilla slice into her mouth, she mutters, “I hated that place. Totally soul-sucking.”
I have no idea what to say. On a personal level, I can commiserate with her. On a professional level, I have no idea who she is, and the last year has made me wary of reporters. My gaze dips to the forgotten black recorder on the buffet table.
“What Charlie isn’t saying, is that you probably heard about her on the news. Little fun fact for you, Zoe: Charlie here busted an entire story a little over a month ago about me and her boyfriend, Duke Harrison.” Gwen watches me, and I have the distinct feeling that this part is a test. “But Charlie is pretty good at keeping secrets otherwise—right, Charls?”
The blonde spares Gwen a narrowed look. “You do realize that I’ve known you for nearly a decade, and you’ve never once called me that. Right?”
Gwen purses her lips. “I thought we were friends?”
“You called me Charlie Sheen two months ago.”
“It was obviously a joke,” Gwen tells me in a conspiratorial voice, hand curled around her mouth and everything. “Charlie’s still feeling a little hurt about it.”
“Well,” Charlie drawls, dragging another quesadilla off the silver tray, “if it hadn’t been for you making Duke see me again, I don’t know where I would be today. Thank you for that. But, anyway, I’m an awesome secret keeper.” Her blue eyes find my face. “Should I turn off my recorder?”
“You have it running right now?” An itchy feeling catches on my neck, and I briskly rub my palm against it, hating the thought that I’m in a room full of people just waiting to bust open the “Moaning Zoe” jokes again.
“Oh, yeah,” Charlie tells me, tapping her finger against the recorder. “This baby never gets turned off. You have no idea what you might hear up here. I mean—did you know that the GM was messing around with someone? His divorce papers aren’t even finalized yet.”
Over Charlie’s head, I exchange a look with Gwen. Gwen, mind you, pulls the least subtle move in the existence of subtlety, and runs a finger across her throat.
“Gwen,” the blonde says, twisting around to stare at my boss in horror. “You didn’t.”
Uh-oh. I shift backward, intent on escaping. “You know, I think I might try to scope out some of those sponsors you were talking about, Gwen. Maybe spend some time convincing them that Andre isn’t the devil incarnate—”
Gwen’s hand clutches my wrist, stalling my flight. “Body. Shield,” she hisses from behind gritted teeth.
My eyes go wide. “From her? Seriously?”
Charlie’s hands go to her hips. “What’s that mean? What are you talking about, ‘body shield’?”
“Nothing, Charls.”
Charlie makes a theatrical show of flicking off her recorder, before dropping it into the backpack tucked between her feet. “Recorder is away, Gwen. Don’t even pretend to play coy. Did you sleep with the GM?”
Sensing trouble on the horizon, I lift a finger. “Can I ask how the two of you know each other?”
Charlie says, “She’s my best friend’s cousin,” at the exact same time Gwen mutters, “I’ve known her for years. Not in a professional setting.”
That’s all the answer I get before they’re verbally lunging at each other again.
“Don’t you know how to keep it in your pants, Gwen?” Charlie throws out, looking every inch the disappointed mother.
Gwen, for her part, rolls her eyes. “He’s not married anymore.”
“It’s called settling on a separation. He’s still legally married.”
“He hasn’t slept with his wife in two years.”
“Because that makes it okay?” Charlie shakes her head, and her blonde ringlets sail through the air with the movement. “Please tell me it was only one time.”
When Gwen bites her bottom lip, I decide it’s time to make my move. The two women are so caught up in their argument that they barely register the fact that I steal two quesadillas from the silver tray for myself and then make my escape.
Perhaps it’s the hockey gods shining down on me, but at that moment, the buzzer kicks off and the announcer’s baritone fills the arena: “Alllll righttttt, there, who is ready to watch the game of the season?”
The crowd goes wild, the sound piercing the owner’s box, even with the glass enclosing us. My feet carry me over to the window, and, for once, I’m content with knowing that not a single soul knows who I am.
As I shovel the remaining bites of quesadilla into my mouth, I keep my gaze trained on the ice below. Aside from two specks, which look a lot like referees, the players haven’t yet entered the arena.
“The Blades are currently 17-23-2 this season,” the announcer continues boisterously. “It has not been a good season for this Boston hockey team.” The crowd appropriately boos, and even a few of the men behind me follow like a pack of lemmings, cupping their hands around their mouths and echoing the boos. “The Philadelphia Flyers are currently the leading team in the division, with a record of 38-2-2. I don’t know about you, Bob, but unless the Blades manage to pull a rabbit out of a magic hat tonight, it’s gonna get bloody down on that ice.”
The second announcer, Bob, gives a low, humorless chuckle that revs the crowd into a high-pitched roar. Over the noise, he says, “Don’t I know it, Tom. But I think we’re going to have ourselves a good one tonight.”
“If number twenty-two from the Blades manages to stay out of the penalty box, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yes, absolutely. At the rate Andre Beaumont is going, he’ll have his name scrawled on the Plexiglas of the sin bin by the end of the season, Tom.”
“Any idea on what’s gotten into him lately? ‘King Sin Bin’ nickname aside, Beaumont has always been a hard player, but recently, it’s been a different game he’s playing. If he keeps it up, he might not even find himself playing for Boston for another season.”
“I hate to do this, but I have to agree with you on this one. If Andre Beaumont can’t find a way to get out of his head and back into the game, then there is a very good chance he won’t be sticking around for much longer.”
As the announcers move on to talk about the other players and their predictions for tonight’s game, my brain is hardwired on one person: Andre Beaumont.
This is way worse than I thought, and I already thought the situation was pretty bad. It’s one thing for him to be messing up off the ice, but for him to be bringing that same mindset to his career? We have a problem—a huge problem that I don’t think is going to be solved by earning back some key sponsors.
This is going to be my last season anyway.
His words from yesterday have haunted me all night, and now they push back to the forefront. I hate to put it this way, but it seems
like a pretty solid chance that Andre is actually throwing away his career.
Which is idiotic.
Even after our incident last year, he remained a first-round trade pick. The man is damn good at what he does, regardless of his other . . . faults.
Wishing that I was down in the crowd, I press my hand to the cool window. The buzzer sounds off again, and then, one by one, the players take to the ice. We’re so far up that they appear like little dots, circling around the marked arena like buzzards after their prey.
I find myself searching for Andre. Back when I worked for the Red Wings, I attended almost every home game. In the beginning, it was only so I could slowly learn the nature of the sport. My mom wasn’t a hockey fan, and phrases like “deke” or “icing” were totally beyond my comprehension.
Ask me what shoes are the must-haves this season, and I totally have you covered, though.
But then I met Andre, and slowly, so slowly that I barely even realized what was happening, my attendance at the games had less to do with learning and more to do with supporting my client and friend.
I wore his jersey with pride, sitting up in the nosebleeds or wherever I could find an empty seat.
I could have easily sat up in the owner’s box, but what was the fun in that?
Sure, there was food, but the life—the soul—of hockey was found in the hundreds of rows of seats stretching up from the ice.
By this time last year, I had fallen into a routine: watch the Red Wings play; meet Andre by the locker room, just before he spoke with the media about the game. Following that, we’d head out and grab late night dinner before heading home.
Or, you know, to our own homes.
No kissing, no touching.
Just two buddies hanging out and grabbing a beer. Or, in my case, white wine.
The memories hurt, and I rub my hand against my chest. Heartburn, maybe. I totally shouldn’t have scarfed down that quesadilla, and I refuse to believe that I might be feeling anything else . . . like emotions.
I felt more than enough of those last year, and I’m still topped off at my lifetime quota.
“Woo-yee! Bob, tell me you saw that body check!”
Bob, the announcer, howls in delight. “Boy, did I? You think maybe Beaumont is out to play tonight?”
“I just think he might be, Bob, I just think he might be. Let’s watch a replay of that, shall we?”
I lift my gaze to the Jumbotron, and sure enough, there’s Andre bulldozing a Flyers player into the boards. The Plexiglas shakes from the force of his hit. And, even though I’m watching a playback, my heart catches in my throat at the sight of Andre jabbing an elbow into the other player’s ribs as they fight for the puck.
Sweat beads down Andre’s face, and his black eyes shine like the devil, narrowed and unholy, as he battles for his life. The Flyers player takes a jab back, striking Andre beneath the chin. I physically wince, as though I were the one to get clocked in the face, but whereas I’d end up on the floor in the fetal position, Andre does what he does best.
He angles his big body in such a way that he hooks the puck with his stick. With a forceful tug, the other player tries to draw Andre back by his jersey. It doesn’t work. In the blink of an eye, Andre escapes the illegal holding.
Just like that, he’s plowing down the ice, light glinting off his navy-blue helmet. With a sharp motion, he draws back and fires the puck toward his teammate. A half-second later, the buzzer sounds and red lights key up in the arena.
One assist down for Andre Beaumont.
If only he played with that much heart off the ice, too.
Chapter Twelve
ZOE
Call me crazy, but I have no idea what I’m doing here.
And by “here,” I’m talking about the fact that I’m lurking outside of the Blades’ locker room like a total stalker. Thanks to my position with Golden Lights Media, getting past security was a breeze.
I flashed my work I.D., the security guard gave it a once over, and with a low grunt, he gave me access to the narrow hallway that looks like something out of a horror movie.
Lucky me.
“Follow the hall, hang your first right,” the guard told me.
Easy, no problem.
But now that I’m standing outside of the locker room, it’s a bit of a different story. Through the door, I can hear raucous, masculine laughter. The Blades put up a hell of a fight tonight, and it paid off, since they won against the Flyers 3-2. But the laughter and cheering only make me wonder if I’m out of my mind—of course, Andre will go out with his teammates to celebrate. Of course, he’s going to think I’m weird for standing out here, waiting for him.
My eyes squeeze shut and my back presses against the cool wall. “You’re crazy, Zoe Mackenzie,” I whisper to myself. “Go the hell home before he catches you out here.”
Great idea. Don’t know why I didn’t think of it sooner.
I twist around and barely make it two steps before I hear a female voice call my name. Looking over my shoulder, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised to see Gwen’s friend Charlie out here, since she’s a reporter and all.
I fake a smile, hoping it doesn’t look pained. “Hey there!” I flash a little wave, already backing up to prepare for my escape.
Charlie hooks a thumb over her shoulder. “Did you need to see one of the guys?” she asks, her curly blonde hair bouncing as she approaches me. “They’re almost done in there, but someone broke out the vodka, and I can’t guarantee any one of them will remember that they were supposed to meet you.”
Drunken hockey players? Yeah, that’s totally my cue to leave. “I thought, maybe, I should link up with one of my clients before heading home, but if they’re partying in there . . . ”
“Who are you meeting?”
Crap, crap, crap. I fake a slap to my forehead. “You know, I totally forgot that he mentioned we’d just meet tomorrow! Silly me.”
Silly me? Who even says that?
You do, apparently.
Charlie’s head tilts to the side. “Gwen mentioned that you’re working with Andre Beaumont.”
I’m not sure if that’s a question or a statement, and I go with shrugging my shoulders and pretending that pools of sweat aren’t taking up residence under my armpits. The longer I stand here, the likelier it’ll be for Andre to find me waiting for him, and if that happens . . . Cue the panic, for real.
“We’re teamed up for the interim,” I finally say, stealing a glance over my shoulder. All I have to do is just inch a little bit back, say farewell, and beat a hasty exit out of the rink.
Charlie totally doesn’t get the hint. “Seriously, you’ve got to tell me—is he as terrifying as he seems?”
Worse, I want to tell her. He’s cocky and rude, and there’s a small part of me that wishes I hadn’t turned down his offer to kiss me in the elevator. Not, of course, that I want him. Okay, maybe I do, just a little. But I only want his body—not him. Crap, that’s not quite true either . . . Out loud, I say, “He takes some time to get used to.”
Her brows lift with interest. “And you’ve gotten used to him?”
“I don’t think anyone could ever get used to Andre. He’s not exactly . . . ”
“Cuddly?”
My gaze shoots to the blonde’s face. “He’s my client.”
Yes, Zoe, he’s your client—not that it mattered to you before.
But Charlie just laughs warmly. “It was just a figure of speech. I didn’t think that you were actually cuddling with him.”
Right, of course. She doesn’t recognize me—and, you know what? It feels good. So good that I open my mouth and ruin it all: “Yeah, the one time we—you know—there wasn’t much cuddling involved.”
My eyes fall shut at the same time that Charlie claps a hand over her mouth. I let out a groan, and it’s pitiful. So damn pitiful. “I didn’t . . . I mean, I’m not . . . ”
“You slept with Andre Beaumont?” Charlie whispers after a moment. But to my su
rprise, she doesn’t sound disgusted. If anything, she sounds . . . intrigued?
I open my eyes, and sure enough, she’s staring at me as though I’ve delivered an early Christmas. “I’m sorry,” I say, backing up, “this is totally unprofessional. Just ignore me. In fact, I’m going to head on my way.”
“I’m dating Duke Harrison.”
The words stop me in my tracks. “Gwen had said something earlier about that?”
Charlie nods. “Yeah, long story. In any case, Duke and I slept together when I was a reporter stalking him down for a story.”
There’s nothing for me to do but gape. “Wow.” I’m impressed. From what little I know of Duke “The Mountain” Harrison’s reputation, it’s that it has always been ridiculously clean. Sleeping with a reporter, well, obviously there’s a reason why they’re dating.
A blush stains Charlie’s cheeks. “Yup. We did it on a hotel rooftop. It was glorious.”
“That’s impressive.” Duke Harrison is a legend, both in the looks department and also in the goalie’s net for the Blades.
“Yeah, well, he’s impressive, if you know what I mean.” She opens her bag and pulls out her audio recorder. With deliberate motions, she clicks it off and drops it back into the cavern of her backpack. “Okay, you know I’m not recording anything, so you have to tell me everything.”
Something about her open expression and friendly demeanor encourages me to do just that. I mean, it’s not like I have any friends in Boston, save for Tia, and she has her own friends. I’m the uncool older sister camping out on the couch until I move out.
“I, well . . . ”
“You don’t have to give details. But since the first time I met him, I figured he’d be, like . . . Okay, total confessional here.” Charlie holds up a hand like she’s taking an oath. “I feel like he would be the worst lover in the existence of lovers. He’s so cold and stiff—”
Before I can stop myself, I mutter, “Well, he’s certainly stiff.”
There’s a small pause before we both erupt into laughter, and it actually seems to break the ice (pun unintended) because the next thing I know, I’m telling her everything. And, I do mean, everything.